


Gower Wassail

by TheGoodDoctor



Category: Historical Farm (UK TV)
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Multi, Wartime Farm Christmas, the smallest possible amount of pining, wassailing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 04:50:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17094239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodDoctor/pseuds/TheGoodDoctor
Summary: “The crew is all packed up and making a move, so I thought we could hitch a lift to the station.”Peter checks his watch over her shoulder, in case an hour and a half has snuck past him in less than five minutes. It hasn't. “We'll be a bit early,” he says hesitantly.





	Gower Wassail

**Author's Note:**

  * For [n3ongold3n](https://archiveofourown.org/users/n3ongold3n/gifts).



> a christmas present for n3ongold3n. merry christmas pal!

Peter has been watching the clock on and off since lunchtime, pottering around the kitchen doing odd jobs so that he's ready. He doesn't have to be ready until five, but still. He is.

Their things are in cases by the door, so that he can just grab them and head out. The house is cleared of the debris of filming, all equipment returned to its rightful owners. Responsibility for the animals has been handed back to the farm.

Peter checks his watch. It's not yet half past three.

He frowns at the empty kitchen, directionless in the face of such a wait. He's run out of ways to pass the time, but there's no point hustling Ruth to the station this early, even if the tickets are burning holes in the pockets of his trousers. There's a clean mug on the table and he picks it up, turning it idly in his hands before strolling slowly to the cupboard in which it belongs and stretching tip-toed to return it.

“Bored, my love?” Ruth says softly. She's managed to sneak in silently, trailing tapered fingers along his waist, and he turns into her as he settles again. His arm falls so easily to her waist and Peter presses the soft smile that's crept onto his face into her hair.

“Too busy too early,” he says ruefully, pulling back to look down at her. A loose strand of hair frames one side of her face and he curls it gently around one finger, sweeping it back into place.

“I did say,” Ruth points out, half-chiding but mostly amused.

“When has that ever made a difference?” Peter replies, trying to suppress a grin and failing when her lips twist and she gently smacks the back of his head.

“Oi,” she says, trying to be stern and missing by miles. “I _did_ have some news that might interest you, but if you're going to be like that-”

“I'm never like that,” Peter says immediately, and Ruth laughs. He secures his arms around her more tightly until she's pressed right up against his chest, hands resting under his collarbones and face turned up to smile at him. She fits very naturally against him, in a way that’s always made him go soft and start on sappy wonderings about fate. “I've never even considered being like that.”

“Oh, well, in that case,” Ruth says, rolling her eyes. “The crew is all packed up and making a move, so I thought we could hitch a lift to the station.”

Peter checks his watch over her shoulder, in case an hour and a half has snuck past him in less than five minutes. It hasn't. “We'll be a bit early,” he says hesitantly.

Ruth gives him a look. “At the rate you're going we'll be early anyway - you've been itching to get away since time immemorial. Besides, by my reckoning we'll only be twenty minutes ahead.” Peter frowns and Ruth grins. “I thought we could get the train at four instead. See if we can't be a nice surprise.”

Peter is too busy being delighted with Ruth's brilliance to pay attention to what his face is doing, but it makes Ruth laugh brightly and, when he ducks his head to hers, he finds he's grinning almost too widely to even kiss her at all.

* * *

“Not sure this is an appropriate method of transport for Chris Rea,” Ruth points out, voice more than slightly muffled. Peter just grins over her head and continues humming until Ruth untucks her face from his scarf. “We're not even going yet.”

Peter shrugs, tucking her closer into his enormous coat. “The train is technically being driven, even if we are not the drivers. And I'm not sure there is a “Taking the train home for Christmas” song. _2000 Miles_ also doesn't apply, for obvious reasons.”

“It does scan better, though, when adapted. He's gone two hundred miles,” Ruth sings, and Peter beams at her, heart melting as it usually does in the face of her light voice on the air. Ruth rolls her eyes at him, smiling slightly embarrassedly. “Daft sod,” she murmurs.

Peter presses a kiss to her temple and sways them gently in time between their suitcases. His breath clouds white in the air before him and the cold bites at his fingers even inside his gloves, but that's alright. Ruth's face is pressed back into his scarf, the rest of her almost entirely concealed by Peter's coat, and this is doing a fairly great deal to warm him both physically and emotionally. And anyway, it wouldn't be Christmas without a bit of travel in the freezing cold.

“And it's been so long,” he mumbles absently, back on Chris Rea.

“It's been three weeks, love,” Ruth points out.

“Almost a month,” he corrects. “And I was quite happy to not remind you how much you demanded cuddles and affection because you missed him too, but-”

“Alright,” Ruth says, prodding his chest as best she can without removing her arms from the huddle. “You win.”

Peter smiles into her hair. He hadn't minded it a bit, the way Ruth would seek him out just to fit herself into his side and stand there for a minute, or curl closer to him at night, but he couldn't miss the way her fingers would continue to reach over him, missing their third. Partly because Peter had missed him too, feeling oddly unbalanced even when lying down with only one side warmed by another person. Out in the fields, too, Peter had felt close to stumbling at every turn without a companion to put some weight on, without Alex to bear some of the brunt of filming. But they'd managed, because Alex’s job is important to him, and Peter had even managed to contextualise his absence by thinking about the war, and how many lovers would have been far from their families at Christmas, possibly never to return-

And then he'd needed a very long hug, and Ruth had held his hand all through the even longer phone call to Alex.

All in all, fun as even a brief return to historical farming is, Peter is glad to get away. He'll be even gladder when the warm train shows up, though. “Ruth, love, why are your hands always so cold?”

“Poor circulation,” she returns promptly. Then she untucks her face from his scarf, looking up at him with a glint in her eye.

Peter leans back. “Put your hands on my bare skin, woman, and I shall button you out of my coat. I'll do it, I swear. Don't test me.”

Ruth pouts, eyes dancing with amusement. “You're no fun. I almost wish you didn't know me so well.”

“We've been running shrieking from your freezing hands since day two of knowing you,” Peter says, pulling back further and releasing Ruth into the cold. A shiver rips through her as the train hisses and pulls into the station, and Peter shifts both cases into one hand to wrap the other around her fingers.

“That's true, actually. Do you want me to-?” Ruth says, gesturing at the suitcases.

“I've got it.” Ruth gives him a rather stern look, which he's only ever treated to when she thinks he's thinking weak and feeble woman thoughts about her. He thinks such thoughts approximately never - Ruth's tougher than he is, he’s long known that - but she still deserves an explanation. “I - like it. Doing things for you,” he says therefore, ducking his head a little.

Her look softens, even as she huffs like he's being ridiculous. “Men are bizarre,” she says frankly, but she does let him hand her into the train and stow their luggage above the seats.

Peter ignores the odd breed of sadness that comes with not needing seats for three, treats Ruth to the window seat, and settles into his seat, humming _I'll be home for Christmas._

* * *

“Not singing us _White Christmas,_ Peter?” Ruth says dryly.

“That and _Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas_ were both popularised in wartime because of their inherent sadness and I’ve had enough of that. Besides, it's Wales,” he replies with feeling. “Anything but a grey and rainy Christmas is beyond even the realm of dreaming.”

Just the short trip between trains at Cardiff has left their good wool coats heavy with fine Welsh weather, Ruth's hair dark and cold and Peter's speckled with big droplets shimmering in the lights of the carriage. Bridgend and Neath have swept past behind thick curtains of rain and the windows are fogging up with wet and weary travellers. It's pretty bleak and miserable and too dark to see the rolling valleys, but Peter can't help bubbling excitement welling up inside him.

Ruth laughs, and he can tell he's not the only one. “Well, grey's better than a _Blue Christmas_ anyway.”

“Yes,” Peter says emphatically. He loves Ruth to the moon and back, but Christmas without Alex - “It wouldn't be the same.”

Ruth gives him an amused look. “And how many times have you done Christmas _with_ him, exactly? You didn’t pine for him when we all went home from Monmouth and Acton-Scott.”

Peter shifts a little and Ruth smiles even wider. “Well, twice, technically.”

“ _Technically?_ ”

“When we stayed on the farm for Christmas so that you could go home for the Morwellham and Southampton years. Only we'd already done period Christmas the week before, so.” And Ruth had gone home. Alex and Peter had looked at each other, and the festive debris that Ruth had made or directed the production of or would know how to cook again, and decided unanimously that - well. It wouldn't be the same.

“Did you boys miss me?” Ruth says, still amused but soft around the edges. Peter shrugs and looks away, but Ruth just leans further into his side. “And did you never notice how pleased I was to come back?”

Peter turns back to her at the gentle encouragement of her freezing fingertips on his stubble. Ruth presses close and his eyes fall shut, letting her kiss away any residual feeling of her absence. He hadn’t, in truth, noticed; too caught up in how pleased he himself was to hear her voice ringing clear out over the farmyard, too busy rushing over to take her bags and accept a quick press of her cold but smiling face to his cheek, too warm inside to feel it reflected in Ruth. But then, they spend all their time balancing and bouncing off each others’ moods, and perhaps at least part of his joy was borrowed from Alex and Ruth.

He opens his eyes, flitting his gaze about her face to drink it all in, familiar and joyful. “I’m excited,” he breathes. Excited doesn’t even cover half of how he’s feeling - it’s all the waiting-for-Christmas plus seeing-family of his childhood, with additional grown-up _missing a best friend and beloved partner,_ and it feels like his blood is running on champagne and sugar, all energy and song.

And she knows, she knows, of course she knows. Peter is wholly unsubtle and Ruth is just as pleased as he is. She rubs a thumb over his cheekbone in understanding and grins. “Me too.”

* * *

The taxi drops them at the bottom of the lane. They’re all three of them suckers for a little isolation and in consequence Alex hasn’t taken his car up to the cottage itself for months, probably. The little lane is a little too overgrown for even the most intrepid taxi driver to attempt and besides, once the clouds have cleared in favour of frigid dry air, it’s a nice walk up the hill. An owl hoots imperiously at them from the darkness, moonlight spilling softly through the trees overhead.

Ruth squeezes Peter’s hand. “He’d better be in,” she points out.

Peter huffs a laugh. “‘S’alright, we’ll surprise him by breaking into his home. He’ll like that.”

Ruth laughs, bringing her hand up too late to stop the noise disrupting the darkness. Several somethings skitter off in the undergrowth and a pheasant beats its wings in an entirely unsubtle attempt to escape undetected. “Ooh, too loud,” Ruth says, wincing.

“I like hearing you laugh,” Peter says, before the rest of his brain can catch up and make him think about it. He’s still working on his intentional expression of feeling. “It’s very pretty,” he adds, and immediately feels daft - _pretty_ doesn’t begin to cover it, and it’s a ridiculous word choice anyway, and-

“Thank you,” Ruth says, sincere and a little surprised, and Peter resolves to tell her everything he likes about her until it’s boringly normal.

The cottage seems to glow in the winter evening. Against the backdrop of ink black valleys and star-studded night, the windows of the house spill out warm golden light onto the cold hard earth below. A plume of light grey smoke curls against the sky from the chimney, promising heat at hearth and home, and Peter can already taste the smoky earthy sweet-salt of roast chestnuts just from the expectation of an evening spent curled up by the stove, peeling blackened shells with singed fingers to share with Alex and Ruth. The chickens are sleeping in the shed by the back door, the hives are silent in the gloom by the apple trees, and light from inside the house reflects off the stepping-stone path in invitation to the door.

Peter takes one look at Ruth, and then their shoes are slipping on the icy ground as they run, beaming, as fast as they can to the wreath, and the knocker, and home.

Ruth dances from foot to foot on the doorstep as they wait for Alex to answer their knock and Peter would bet it’s equal parts cold and excitement. “O come, all ye Alex,” she sings softly, rubbing her hands together.

Peter snorts softly. “Come and behold us,” he sings back, skipping ahead. “It’s real-ly real-ly real-lycold.”

“O come let us adore you,” Ruth sings, beaming and gaining volume as Peter joins in until they must be audible inside the house.

The door swings open and they break off, grinning brightly. Alex is frozen half-way through shrugging his coat on, scarf untied around his neck, hat and keys in one hand and a look of absolute astonishment on his face. He blinks at them a few times, hair glowing against the hall light behind his head. Ruth looks like she’s trying not to laugh.

“Hello, Alex,” Peter says, grinning.

“I was just going to come and get you,” Alex manages at last, gesturing slightly with his hat as if to explain himself. “What - why-”

“We’re carolling,” Ruth says brightly. “Season’s greetings, and all that.”

Peter presses a hand to his chest and looks mock-seriously at Ruth. Winding up a confused/alarmed/extremely tired Alex has always been entirely too much fun, and just now Alex seems to be three for three. “I’m wassailing, thank you. I expect cake, cider and cheese.”

“You need a horse’s skull on a stick for that around here,” Alex points out, a smile creeping onto his face.

“They wouldn’t let me on the train with it,” Peter says, mock-sadly, and Ruth laughs. “Anyway; besides all on earth you’ll have apples in store, pray let us come in for it’s cold by the door,” he sings, watching Alex’s face light up, as if warmed from within, as it slowly dawns on him that yes, they really are here early. Peter can’t help a sappy grin at the sight, leaning slightly into the warmth of the house and of Alex, wonderful Alex.

And Alex is stepping through the doorway and his arms are open and Peter has armfulls of his favourite people on pure, joyous instinct. He’d half-expected urgency, but it’s more like relief - relaxing into their arms. Alex smells faintly of dusty books and coffee and cinnamon, and there’s a tiny smear of ink on his cheekbone, and the man’s all elbows and ribs, always has been, and Peter presses his face into the space behind Alex’s ear and just breathes.

“We took an earlier train,” Ruth is explaining, and Peter rubs his thumb along the curve of her hip, the shape softened by layers of winter clothing but still familiar as his own skin. “We missed you so much, love. Couldn’t wait another hour.”

“I missed you too,” Alex says, grip tightening almost desperately on them. “I’m so glad you’re home. Never go away again.”

“Done,” Ruth says firmly, burrowing further into the huddle. “As long as you don’t mean from this specific spot on the doorstep, because-”

“Yes, yes, Ruth is cold,” Alex laughs, entirely unable to even pretend to be cross. “Lord, I’ve missed you and your frozen hands and Peter’s occasional descent into stoic silence.”

Peter smiles against Alex’s skin and Ruth squeezes his side. “I’m appreciating the spirit of the season, thanks,” he says.

“Well, come and appreciate it inside in the warm,” Ruth says fondly. “We’ll ransack the cupboards for wassailing rewards in true Mari Lwyd fashion.”

“You will not,” Alex says firmly. “That cheese and cider is exclusively for people with real jobs and essays to mark.”

Peter pulls back and presses a kiss to the corner of Alex’s mouth. “That’s the spirit,” he says, grinning, and Alex huffs and rolls his eyes and Peter loves him so much it’s hard to do anything but stare.

Until Ruth prods him in the ribs. “Come on, stop swooning. I’m going inside.”

“I’m not swooning,” Peter protests mildly over Alex’s laughter and scoops up their cases.

“Alright with the bags, Peter?” Alex asks, stretching out a hand as he follows Ruth indoors.

“He’s having a manly-man day,” Ruth says, before Peter can get a word in. He gives her an unimpressed look and she grins. “Let him carry it, make him feel all strong.”

Alex laughs, but he does allow Peter to carry both the suitcases. “It’s actually more of a _caring for my loved ones_ day, but fine,” Peter mumbles, grumbling without much heat.

He almost thinks they haven’t heard him at all in the shuffling and stumbling of taking shoes and coats off in the cottage’s tiny hallway, but when he’s done wiping his boots and put the bags down under the coat rail Alex leans into him, chest to chest, one long arm extending to push the door shut behind him. “Well, in that case,” Alex breathes. He tilts his head, looking at Peter with piercing intensity, and ah, there’s the urgency. Peter’s breath stutters in his chest but he can’t move, pinned like a butterfly by bright eyes and close-pressing limbs.

Alex takes pity. Peter’s hands drop easily to Alex’s hips, tugging him even closer to deepen the kiss, and Alex hums happily. There’s a certain element of calm contentedness to it, even as Peter’s hands creep under Alex’s shirt and Alex presses hungrily into the contact. This is but an extension of coming home, another part of what makes Peter feel most at peace, and he wouldn’t give it up for the world.

They part, foreheads leaning together. Alex grins at him, bright and sweet, and Peter’s eyes slide to Ruth. She’s the best person to share in his incredulity at their luck and, as expected, she’s smiling widely with a faint edge of wonder. Peter removes one hand from Alex’s waist and holds it out to her in silent invitation. Her fingers look so delicate, laid gently in his broad palm, and something in Peter delights at this contrast. It’s amplified by Ruth’s little lean up and Alex’s matching lean down, meeting easily and naturally in the middle, and Peter watches them kiss with a similarly easy form of desire: he wants, he wants so badly to let his hands remember every way they know to make Alex gasp and Ruth shudder, he wants to let them touch every inch of his skin until he can barely _breathe_ \- but. They have time now, acres of it, stretching into the bleak midwinter and out the other side. They’ve nothing to do, no place to go-

 _Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow,_ Peter’s brain adds helpfully, and he huffs a laugh. Ruth and Alex turn to him curiously and he shrugs. “Wouldn’t it be cheesy and naff if it started snowing right now?”

Ruth tips her head back and laughs as Alex rolls his eyes, groaning. “It’d be awful, Peter. So cliche and terrible.”

“But then we could have a white Christmas!” Ruth says, clasping their hands to her chest in exaggerated delight. “We could build a snowman!”

“He’ll say are you married, we’ll say no, man,” Peter sings, grinning at Alex’s suppressed smile. “But our partner is all grumpy and a Scrooge.”

Alex thumps him gently in the side, trying not to laugh. “Charles Dickens has a lot to answer for.”

Peter assumes his best best Kermit voice. “After all, there’s only one more sleep til Christmas!”

“Of which _The Muppets’ Christmas Carol_ is actually not the worst,” Ruth points out as a semi-seriously despairing Alex drops his head to hide his face in her shoulder.

“It’s not the best,” Alex returns dryly over Peter’s giggling. He leans back, looking sympathetically at Ruth. “Has he been like this all day?”

“All week,” Ruth replies seriously, ignoring Peter’s affronted noise. “He’s driven the production team up the wall, singing Jona Lewie when he should be in 1942.”

“It was topically relevant,” Peter protests, and they turn to grin at him. “And you loved it really.”

Ruth shrugs, smiling. “I want to hear all about it,” Alex says, reaching up to cup the back of Peter’s head fondly.

“You mean our tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago?” Peter sings as innocently as he can.

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year!” Ruth sings back, beaming.

Alex snaps his fingers in mock-realisation. “ _Now_ I understand why you never let wassailers in. They’re really annoying-”

The rest of his sentence is lost to an attack of limbs and kisses and laughter. There are worse outcomes to wassailing.

**Author's Note:**

> there are. a lot of christmas songs in the world.
> 
> gower wassail is a very old tune, associated with the welsh tradition of mari lwyd-ing. i'd explain what it is here, but you wouldn't believe me. the welsh are mad.


End file.
